The Sparrow & the Dove
by MisguidedGhostTwilighter
Summary: A glorious dove & a scrawny sparrow. The sparrow will never be good enough & the dove will always be too far away whilst the sparrow watches; waiting for something that will never come. My name's Seth Clearwater. I'm the sparrow. The dove? That's Edward.
1. Chapter 1

The Sparrow & the Dove 

Summary:

Two birds: a glorious white dove and scrawny sparrow. The dove is eating something that it's found on the ground whilst the sparrow watches on. The sparrow will never be good enough, and the dove will always be stood too far away, revelling in luxury and joy whilst the sparrow watches; wishing and waiting for something that will never, ever come. My name is Seth Clearwater. I am the sparrow. And the dove? That's Edward.

I'm looking out of the window. It's nearly dark outside; it's the funny time of night where the sky is covered in pink streaks and neither the sun nor the moon is lighting the sky on its own. I guess it's kind of pretty, but there's nothing pretty about my life right now.

Outside, there is a large, perfectly mowed lawn. There are two birds: a glorious white dove and a scrawny sparrow. The dove is eating something that it's found on the ground whilst the sparrow watches on. The sparrow is standing about two feet away from the dove. Every so often, he sparrow tries to make its way towards the dove, hopping nervously closer, but then the dove will glance up at it and the sparrow will skitter away again.

The sparrow is feeling anxious and rejected and mournful, wanting nothing more than to be next to the dove, with the dove, sharing food with the dove. But the sparrow will never be good enough, and the dove will always be stood too far away, revelling in luxury and joy whilst the sparrow watches; wishing and waiting for something that will never, ever come.

My name is Seth Clearwater. I am the sparrow. And the dove? That's Edward.

I'm in his house right now, where he lives with his wife, Bella; his daughter, Nessie; his adoptive brothers, Jasper and Emmett; their wives and Edward's sisters, Alice and Rosalie; and his and their adoptive parents, Esme and Carlisle.

This family seems so perfect. Everyone's in love, everyone is happy and contented and beautiful. Everyone is going to stay that way forever.

But then there are those of us who are on the sidelines. Sort of part of the family, except not. One of those people is me; the other is Leah. She's been in this place for a long time. Jacob, our alpha, used to be here with us, too. But then Nessie was born and he imprinted and everything was great for him.

Don't get me wrong, I don't begrudge any of them their happiness. I would never wish for Edward or Bella or Jasper or Alice or Emmett or Rosalie or Esme or Carlisle or Nessie or Jake to be alone. I just wish that Edward was available. No, I wish he was taken; I wish he was taken by me.

Yes, I'm in love with Edward Cullen. I love his brown-red hair that he's always running his long, thin fingers through. I love the way he's got an air of grace and nobility about him, and yet he's so casual. I love how he always knows what to say and how his brow creases when he's thinking. I've catalogued all of that stuff and yet I've never been able to think about it around him. I can't lust after the real him; can't gaze at his perfection when we're in the same room, because he'd know.

And he can't ever know. If he knows, he'll hate me. If he knows...

"Seth."

I jump a foot in the air. Did I really just hear Edward's voice, or did I imagine it?

Slowly, I turn around, wincing inwardly. I see him there, in the doorway, his arms stiff by his sides and his jaw set into a hard line.

Aw, crap. There's no point trying to hide my thoughts now; he's heard it all. He knows, he knows, he knows.

"Okay," I say, before he can say another word. He's looking at me strangely – probably with disgust – and I don't want to hear the words behind his emotions. "Okay, I'll go. I'm going now. You'll never see me again. I'm sorry."

I stand up to walk away. The quickest exit is down the stairs, but Edward's blocking the path to them. So, I'll have to phase and leap out of a window. I can't walk towards him; I can't walk past him; I can't look at him, not anymore.

"Seth," he says again.

His voice is closer now. He's right behind me. I can feel his cold breath on my neck. I can smell his floral, minty scent and feel it burning, like aerosol spray, in the back of my throat. And yet I can never hate that smell.

"Edward," I croak out, closing my eyes and leaning my palms against the window in front of me. If I have to hear the words, I don't want to stick around to let him hear me think about them. I'll listen and I'll leave.

I can feel those razor blades that Jacob and Leah told me about. I can feel the sharp pain in my stomach and the heavy weight in my throat. Fuck, I'm going to cry. This is not good.

"Seth, you don't have to go."

"I do."

"Please don't go."

What? Did I hear him right? Did he just ask me not to go?

"Yes," he whispers, answering my thoughts. Holy crap, his hands are wrapped around the tops of my arms. He's so close now; I can feel the empty pounding of his long-gone heart bumping against my back.

Even though I'm frozen still with terror, I can't help but lift my hands to rest over his. His fingers are so cold. Like an ice-lolly after a really hot day. Like the feeling of the cool sea beneath your toes after walking over a hot beach for hours. So good...

"Why?" I ask. I dare not hope. I dare not hope that he wants me too...

"Because..." he hesitates and I imagine his brow furrowing. This is difficult for him.

There's a pause, which is filled with my slow, wary breathing and his barely audible breathing.

"Because, Seth... you're... well, I want you to be... I mean..."

I turn to face him and his hands fall away from my arms. He's just a few inches shorter than me; I have to lower my head to press my forehead against his.

"Is this what you want?" I whisper.

Then, like I've dreamed of doing for so long, I kiss him. I let my teeth graze along the hard, cold, smooth pink flesh of his lips. I joy in the taste and then I let my lips press gently against his. Not for long; just for a few seconds, just a suggestion of a kiss. But a kiss all the same.

I pull my mouth away, letting him take that in. I know that I have to go slowly; to let him learn and let him comprehend and let him come to terms with this. This is going to be very different from the past; very different from making out with men who already knew and accepted their sexuality.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

Shit. I got the wrong message. "Uh, sorry, I thought..."

"I mean, why have you stopped?"

That takes a second to sink in. But, when it does, a huge smile breaks across my face. I imagine that, outside, the sparrow is right next to the dove; I imagine the two of them sharing the food and the grass and the late evening light.

I push my lips back against Edward's, and this time he joins in with the kiss; this time, it's more than a suggestion. His hands curl around the back of my neck, his fingers so cold and urgent as they press through my hair and into my scalp. My arms wind around his waist, my fingers locking together behind his back.

My back is pushed hard up against the window ledge; his body is pressed tight against mine, as his tongue traces my lips, but he's still not close enough. I move my hands up his back to his face, where I stroke the hard, sharp edges of his cheekbones; the slow, sure motion of his hard, solid jaw as his lips move with mine...

And now I can feel his hard-on through his trousers. I know that he'll be able to feel mine. I pray that this doesn't freak him out; that he doesn't pull away and run.

Across the corridor, there is a door that leads to a guest bedroom. Edward pulls me towards it, his hands moving down to press into my shoulders and my arms; he massages the muscles like a pro, and I wonder what else he's good at.

I can feel him smiling at my last thought as we fall through the door and onto the soft, feather bed. I pull off his shirt, breaking most of the buttons off completely. He rips away my T-shirt, tearing it completely in half. I move my mouth down his jaw, his neck, his chest; down to his nipples, which I take tenderly between my teeth.

His fingers are tracing my abs, my pecks, my arms...

Pulling my mouth away from him for a moment, I snap the button on his trousers before tossing them away. He's wearing grey, cotton boxers. For some strange reason, I half expected long johns, like they used to wear in the old days.

That cracks him up; his body ripples with laughter as he tugs my jeans off of me. After that, it only takes a moment to remove our boxers, and he's inside of me.

I twist my neck round, easing my tongue inside his mouth; he brings one hand around to the front of me, which he uses to grab my dick.

It's in the midst of this dark, heavy, warm-yet-cold heaven that we are interrupted. A stray bird; a wandering bringer of exposures, quite literally shed light onto our secret: the door opens. I can't see who's on the other side – the sudden light blinds me – but Edward, with his superior sight, can. He gasps, and then he's gone, scrambling for his shirt and trousers as a female voice screams and runs away, yelling in anguish.

I watch Edward as he runs from the room, desperately calling out one word: "Bella!"

The door shuts behind him and I slump back on the bed in the dark, listening to the footsteps. He came – no double entendre intended – and then he went, just like that.

I get up and walk to the window, wanting to catch a last sight of the sparrow and the dove before I leave. The sparrow is alone, crouched on the grass, trying to keep warm beneath its scrawny feathers as the wind buffets it. I glance up into the sky; the dove is flying away with another dove.

There's no point in me sticking around here.


	2. Chapter 2

The Sparrow & the Dove

A/N:

Thanks to everyone who reviewed/ favourited. You guys rule.

Chapter Two:

I never thought it was possible to cry in this form. And yet, here I am, in my wolf body, with thick, fat, human tears tumbling from my eyes. It feels strange, the sensation of my fur getting soaked; like when you're wearing socks and you step into a pool of water.

I don't know how far I've run, and I don't care. All I know is that I'm far enough away for the voices to fade from my head; I can't hear Leah alternating between swearing at me and begging me to stay; I can't hear Quil teasing me, hoping that will stop me leaving; I can't hear Embry telling Jake to Alpha command me; and I can't hear the one thing that hurt the most: the disgust.

It was hidden, buried deep, whether intentionally or not, but they were all disgusted. Everyone except for Leah felt disgust and revulsion. They knew that they felt that way, and they knew that I knew. They were almost apologetic; apologetic for a reaction that was so instinctual and so ingrained that, until now, they hadn't known it existed.

But it does.

So, now, I'm running. I'm running through a forest that seems to stretch on forever. When it ends, I wonder, what will I do? I can't stay wolf. Or maybe I will. Does it matter? They'll only shoot me, or run screaming, and that's what I deserve. I'm a hideous creature; a mutant; a thing of children's nightmares. And, to make it worse, I've now fucked everything up for Edward and the rest of the Cullens. Nothing will ever be perfect for them again, because of me.

I know what Leah would say: they don't deserve perfect; they're a bunch of sparkly, stuck-up twats.

And I'd tell her they were good people, and she'd agree and tell me that she doesn't like good people.

I know why: god people are harder for her to handle, because it's so much more difficult to be mean to good people, and being mean is her only defence; the only thing that stops her form hurting.

And I've just hurt her even more. Oh, fuck, Seth, you can't get anything right today, can you?

But there is one thing I can do without causing any damage: I can run. I can run better than any human; I can run on instinct, and I can get a shallow, easy thrill out of it. So that's what I'll do: like Jake did before, I'll become wolf.

Except, unlike Jake, I won't be coming back.

Somewhere, a short distance away...

The sky was turning a bruise-like purple, and the moon was just showing on the far side of the night sky. Clouds clustered all around, blocking out the stars. Tomorrow, it would rain, but for now it was dry, if a little too cold.

Perched in the upper branches of a tree, protected from most of the wind, was a tiny, intricately woven bird's nest. The weave was smoother and neater than any created by a machine, and the feathers and moss inside made it softer than any human bed.

A shaft of silver moonlight fell onto this nest, lighting up the three birds clustered inside. They were sparrows: one adult male and two chicks. Even with there scrawny, brown feathers bushed up as much as possible, they couldn't set warm enough. They communicated in tiny chirrups and tweets; not a very complex language, but it worked.

_I'm cold,_ the smallest chick chirped.

The other chick said the same, but the adult male – the father – wasn't listening.

_Where's mommy? _The larger chick asked. _Where's the food she brings?_

_I'm hungry, _tweeted the other chick, opening its mouth wide to illustrate this.

The father still wasn't listening. Despite his limited bird brain, he was thinking. He wanted to leave; to spread his gaunt, brown wings and fly away. He wanted to soar high, with the beautiful birds: the swans, the hawks, the doves.

So he did. He left his chicks in the cold, with no food. There would be no other parent to care for them, because their mother had flown into an electricity pylon the previous week.

Two days later, the chicks were dead, and their father still hadn't succeeded in flying with doves. In his tiny bird mind, he had no idea of the truth: he would never fly with them.

A'N:

What did you think? Did you like the little bird bit at the end, or was that just weird? I'm talking to you; yes, you! Review, or I'll get you with my braces!


	3. Chapter 3

The Sparrow & the Dove

A/N: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed/favourite or even just read the Fanfic. Especially to loves-unwanted-qeen: your review has given me a brilliant idea!

Chapter Three:

Leah:

Ever since I escaped from Sam's shadow, from the ghost of who I used to be, I've started to come out of the dark. So, now, I'm aware of the warmth of the sun caressing my back and the feel of the cool water beneath my paws. And all these feelings; all these joys that nature can give are so much better in wolf form.

I'm lying in the shallow stream that runs through the trees behind the Cullen's house, enjoying the feeling of the cool, gentle water rippling along underneath me, when I'm suddenly aware that something has changed: there is another presence in my mind.

He's not thinking at first, at least not in words, so for a few minutes I'm only aware of him; I can't hear him. But I know he is Seth. Then, slowly, I can feel more things: I can feel his instinct, his deep, over powering desire, to run; to escape. And I can see and feel and hear his memories, because they are too overpowering for him to hide.

They make my heart ache.

Suddenly, the thoughts of my pack brothers, which I had blocked before, all come flooding back in.

_Oh, go on then, run away, you little pussy, _Quil thinks at him. I would've been angry, except I know he doesn't mean it.

_Aw, no, Seth, mate, don't go!_ Embry pleads. _Jake!_ he calls to Jacob. _Don't let him go! You have to stop him, Jake! You're the alpha, control him, please! _

_Seth, _I whisper. _Please, Seth, don't do this._

_I have to go, Leah, _he growls.

_No, you don't! _I yell back. _Fucking hell, Seth, this is bloody stupid! Don't go, please, I'm begging you!_

_I have to go, _he repeats, with more force this time. I know I'm not going to be able to convince him – the kid can be surprisingly stubborn and determined when he puts his mind to it – but there is no way I'm giving up. Not on Seth. Not on my baby brother.

_Oh, shit, fuck, Seth! You son of a bitch, get your ass back here! _

_No. _

He keeps repeating that same word – _no – _over and over again, until long after he goes out of sight. Until even his thoughts and feelings fade away. And then, I know he's gone. Maybe he's broke the connection permanently. Maybe he's just gone further than any wolf has gone before.

I only know one thing for certain as I turn and begin to walk towards the big white house: there is no way they are getting away with this. No fucking way.


	4. Chapter 4

The Sparrow & the Dove

A/N:

Chapter Four:

Leah:

My vision, and my mind, is spilt into two: in front of me, behind me; kill them, hold back. The constant tugging – go, stop; do it, don't you dare! – should make me feel dizzy, but even with the rocking motion inside my head I know what I want to do; I know what I want to see, to feel, to think.

Everything is frantic, with Jacob's paws pounding behind me, desperate to keep up, and with his thoughts screaming in my head, whilst he has his own personal battle over whether or not to Alpha command me. But, I feel as though my mind is closing down. No, not closing down: focussing. Focussing on the stupid, white house in front of me and the creatures – not people, creatures – inside it's stupid, shiny walls.

I don't respond to Jacob's shouting, begging, and exasperated swearing. Still, he knows my reaction. Everything he says, I disagree with on a sub conscious level, which he can feel rather than hear.

_Leah, this is ridiculous! _

_No it's not. _

_Leah, you don't want to do this! _

_I really fucking do. _

_Leah, Seth wouldn't want this. _

_I don't give a damn. _

_Leah, for fucks sake, don't make me Alpha command you! _

_Like you fucking would, you cowardly son-of-a-bitch. _

_Leah, please! You'll regret this! _

_No I won't. _

_Leah, don't be stupid! _

_Fuck off, Alpha. _

He doesn't give up, but he drifts away to the corners of my mind. I push him out, repeat the words over and over to myself: Bella deserves to die. Bella deserves to die. Bella deserves to die.

And who am I to deny someone something they deserve? She ruined Seth's chance at the happy ever after; she robbed from him something that should never, ever be robbed form anyone, let alone someone as sweet and good as my baby brother.

She is going to die.

I barrel through the back door, knocking it off its hinges and smashing the glass. My claws dig into the carpet as I skid to a stop, my furious, predatory wolf eyes scanning the area for Bella fucking Cullen.

Then I hear her voice, whiny and high pitched in the front room. She's so close; I can smell her stinging, too sweet smell; I can almost taste the sickly sherbet taste of her rock hard body as I crush it between my teeth.

Soon. Soon, she will suffer.

She knows I'm here, of course, but the stupid cunt is too self obsessed to care. Edward, the man my brother loves, can hear my thoughts. Does he care? Will he defend Bella, or does he agree with me?

I listen to what they're saying, because a strange calm ahs descended over me now that I am so close to my goal.

"What are you, Edward?" she demands. "How can you do this to us?"

"Bella, I-"

"No, wait, I don't want to hear your excuses!"

"Then what do you want?"

"I want you to choose. Me and your daughter, your real, true life; or Seth, the guy who's supposed to be your enemy, and a life of dirtiness, forever sticking your dick up his ass!"

"Bella, please, I-"

"For God's sake, Edward, choose! You love me! Not him; not that mother fucking gay dickhead!"

That does it; the calm that had been cloaking my revengeful fury bursts into flames, and I'm growling and shaking from my claws to my tail. I coil to spring, and throw myself, jaws opened wide and claws extended, at the object of my hatred: Bella Cullen.

There's no way she stands a chance, I think to myself. She's unprepared and vulnerable. And she can't fight; she never learnt how.

But then, suddenly, I'm on the other side of my room, on my back, feeling a searing pain from the base of my tail to my shoulder blades.

And there are teeth in my neck; digging sharply into the soft muscle of my neck. It fucking hurts; like fire flaring in one spot; like salt in a fresh wound; like no pain imaginable.

I struggle and try to fight, but my neck is numb, leaving my most valuable weapon – my teeth – out of action.

Oh, shit.

The numbness is rapidly spreading down my spine and leaking down into my legs. This is it; everything is in slow motion, and I wonder how this looks from the outside. I wonder if there's blood. I hope I stain the precious cream carpet.

After that thought, my mind fades away into a red haze.

...

Somewhere, in the deep black of the forest, a female sparrow falls to the ground. She's lost grip on the branch she was clinging to, and fallen down, down, down, down to the ground. She won't survive the fall; she knows that.

Desperate, her brown wings flap and flail in the air, fighting to lift her; fighting to stop the plummeting and save her life.

But it doesn't work. Only one of her wings flaps; the other, twisted and useless, sticks out from her side at an odd angle: broken.

In the branches above her, the murderer watches on with golden eyes. She is a lithe cat with a white face and underbelly, and brown fur along her back. She has won the fight, and she feels confident as she purrs and licks her lips and paws.

Little does she know, a whole load of sparrows are coming her way; little does she know, they will be led by her closest ally; little does she know, she had just passed her own death sentence.


	5. Chapter 5

The Sparrow & the Dove

A/N: 

Sorry it's been ages since I posted the last part. I don't really have an excuse, except for the fact I recently started a new Fanfic and I tend to get obsessive over new things for a while, before moving on to something else.

I hope you enjoy this part and that it's worth the wait.

Chapter Five:

Seth:

"Do you want tea? Biscuits?"

This old woman is beginning to drive me crazy.

"No, thanks," I reply, not meeting her caring, wrinkled eyes or focussing on her curly grey hair and floral apron.

"Okay, dear," she says, patting my head before scuttling off, hunch-backed, into the kitchen.

I'm sitting on her beige couch, in her tiny living room. Every surface is perfectly dusted and polished. Framed pictures of smiling grandchildren hang on the walls and porcelain statues perch on the mantelpiece. The cramped room reminds me of how much I've grown since I phased for the first time; I feel like a caged animal that doesn't have the energy to break free.

It would be cruel, anyway, to just leave. This old woman has been nothing but nice to me, even though I've been so anti-social and probably scared the shit out of her. She brought me back to her house when she saw me wandering through the streets in nothing but a pair of shabby shorts that I'd found at the edge of the forest, when it ended, so I owe her big time.

I'm extremely grateful, of course, but I don't want to be around people right now. Especially not nice people.

Actually, I don't know what I want. Do I want tea and biscuits? Do I want to stay here, get a job and start and new life? Do I want another man to fuck me into next week? Do I want to join the circus? Do I want to... to...

I've run out of stupid ideas now. Well, no, I haven't; I have one idea left. It's the stupidest of the lot, and never in a million years will it do me any good. Never in a million years will it work out how I wish it would. So I'm not even going to think it.

But I already have: _I want to go back to Edward. _

Surprisingly, his name does nothing to me. It doesn't hurt or burn the way I expected it to. It just feels like an empty space; a void of long gone memory and a burst of hope. The hope is nothing but an echo; an empty ache in my stomach.

Or maybe I'm just hungry.

"Actually, Betty," I call to the old woman in the kitchen. "I think I will have that biscuit."

"Okay, dear," she calls back.

Why did I do that? Because I think, if I'm going to survive without Edward, I need to star taking every good thing offered to me. Starting with a biscuit.

...

Jacob:

I could've stopped her; I should've stopped her. I had that power to freeze her on the spot and save her life. But I guess she was right: I am a cowardly son-of-a-bitch. Now, because I tried to be a special, kind, compassionate I-won't-force-people Alpha, my Beta ahs gotten herself killed.

There's only silence in my head; the dead, empty, cold silence that's left behind when someone dies. I've never felt it this way before. Leah's mind had been connected with mine, and now it was gone, faded into blackness. Her mind is still there, butt here's nothing going on inside it. It will always be there: a memory, an echo, of the thoughts we once shared. When she's buried in the ground, I'll feel a hint of claustrophobia; when her body rots away, I'll need to shower to cleanse myself of the dirty feeling.

I haven't seen her yet, and I'm not sure I want to; not sure I want to see Leah lying there, on the Cullens' carpet, dead. But still my wolf feet pad forwards towards my Alpha, as if there's some kind of instinctual ritual that forces me to sit by her side.

And I will; I know I will. I know that I will sit in silent vigil beside her for three days and three nights, because that it what the legends say we should do and, right now, that is the only thing that feels right.

I'm not alone in wolf form: Embry and Quil are here, too, walking in the same direction as me, their thoughts a void of sorrow and shock.

Inside the house, all the Cullens minus Edward and Bella are stood in the kitchen, beside the broken glass of the door that Leah smashed her way through. They look sombre, standing straight with their heads bent forward and their hands locked together behind their backs.

I feel a burst of aggression towards them: one of their coven has just killed my Beta, so my natural reaction is to kill them all. But I won't; I won't be as hypocritical as that, when just a few minutes ago I was begging Leah not to kill for revenge.

But she didn't listen. And now I'm standing on the blood-stained carpet beside her body. It's obvious that she's dead, and not peacefully sleeping: there is a frenzied look of astonishment and fury in her wide, glassy eyes; her jaws are opened wide, showing a murderous row of teeth; and her forelegs are twisted upwards in a strange position, as though she was frozen in the midst of clawing at someone.

Embry and Quil both take their positions on my left side, sitting further back than me. Neither of them ventures near my right side; that was Leah's place. I doubt any wolf will ever rightfully stand there again.

I lower myself down so that I'm lying on my belly beside her body, and the other two do the same. However, I even with them there beside me, I feel so very alone as I lower my head to press my nose against Leah's flank. It feels cold and hard, like frozen Astroturf. I can almost hear Leah laughing at that comparison.

_I'm dead,_ she was say, chuckling, _and you're comparing me to artificial grass? You never were that good with words, Jake, but that one's bad, even for you!_

I close my eyes and, letting my mind drift away into the empty echo of the place Leah's thoughts used to hold in my head, I tumble slowly and silently down into memories...


	6. Chapter 6

The Sparrow & the Dove

A/N:

Hey. So, here's the next part.

Chapter Six:

Seth:

I step outside and take a deep breath. It smells like expensive washing powder and flowers around this neighbourhood, and that's a smell I'm going to be getting used to. I've decided to stay here. Because, what's the point in going back? There's nothing for me there.

I wave to Betty, the old woman whose house I'm staying in, as I walk down her neat front garden path. The road is quiet, and the houses all around have pretty gardens and washing that was probably never even dirty hanging out the front.

Now, I wonder as I walk slowly down the sidewalk, how am I - a gay, runaway werewolf - going to fit-in in a respectable neighbourhood like this? Simple: I'll change. That was a decision I made last night, as I lay awake in the far-too-comfortable-to-be-a-guest-bed bed in Betty's spare (but perfectly decorated and cleaned) room.

So, how will I change? Well, first, I'll get a job, some new clothes, and, eventually, a place of my own to live. Then there's the whole gay thing. I doubt the prudish, if nice, people who live round here will be very happy about that. So what do I do? Get married to a nice girl, think about Edward until I get a boner, and then have kids with her? Maybe. It isn't like I'm not living a lie already; I'm already keeping the biggest secret ever: I'm a bloody werewolf.

But I should definitely stop being that. A werewolf, I mean. I should stop phasing; I should let myself be human and age. Because, after all, why should I live forever? What do I have to live for, really?

Not much, that's what.

So, I continue walking down the street, searching for a life that gives me a little more than the 'not much' that I'm experiencing right now. So, the first question: what sort of a job can I get? What sort of a job would accept a kid from a tiny Native American Rez who has barely finished school with just-about-a-pass on his final exams?

Not many.

How successful am I going to be today?

Not very.

How much money am I going to have by the end of this week?

Not much.

Hm, I think, as I walk around a corner. There seems to be a trend here. A trend of 'not's. And not the good sort of 'not's, like: I have not died; I have not just killed your pet hamster; I have not just dropped my sister's favourite top in the mud. No, I'm talking the bad sort of 'not's. The sort of 'not's that mean-

Holy shit!

What the hell just happened? Why am I on my backside on the ground?

Oh, I just walked into someone.

"Sorry," she says quietly. But it isn't like she muttered it; it's more like she said it in a husky sort of voice that makes it sound like she means it. "Are you okay?"

I nod at her and consciously decide to smile. "Yeah, I'm fine. It was my fault; you don't need to apologise," I say, taking the hand that she offers to help me up.

"I'm Angela," she tells me, smiling shyly but genuinely. "Angela Weber."

"Seth," I reply, feeling a vague sense of recognition at her name. "Seth Clearwater."

"Hi, Seth. I thought I recognised you; we met at La Push a few times, at First Beach."

"Oh, right!" I realise, nodding and smiling. I remember now: she was the quiet one sitting on the driftwood bench with the binoculars. I hadn't felt any need to talk to her, but I'd tripped over her feet as I'd chased the Frisbee through the air, and we'd had a brief conversation.

She obviously doesn't see the need to force me into the usual conversation that would be required now; the conversation that nobody really wants or cares about, where they say "what brings you here?" and "How are you doing, then?" and "We'll have to meet up some time."

But then Angela says to me: "Well, I work at the tiny coffee shop round the corner; I'll give you a discount if you come by."

I smile and nod. "Thanks."

As she walks away, I realise that, when she said that, she actually meant it. It hadn't been just a matter of being 'nice' or 'polite'; it had actually been genuine. Angela, it decide, is weird. Sweet, but weird.

But, then again, maybe those two things are exactly what I need right now.


	7. Chapter 7

The Sparrow & the Dove

A/N:

Sorry about how long it's been since the last part. I just couldn't think of how to write it, but now I've thought up a new angle to approach from, so here it is.

Chapter Seven:

Embry:

Even now she's dead, I can still see the things that made me love her: the arrogant, stubborn upwards tilt of her chin; the determination and passion that had brought her here; and so many other things that I can't quite name, but I can feel.

Even when she was in wolf form, it was obvious to anyone who knew her that this was Leah. In some ways, she was even more like herself as a wolf than she was as a human. And, in some ways, she was more dangerous as a human than as a wolf. Her words were her greatest weapon. She could cut me deeper with one disparaging word than with a thousand bites of her wolf jaws.

I love Leah Clearwater. Leah Clearwater never loved me. Even now she's dead, I know that she would gladly tell em to grow up and stop snivelling; she would say emotions belong behind close doors and I should stop feeling things that are only going to hurt me.

She said that to me before, and when I told her that I couldn't stop loving her, she'd slapped me.

That was the difference between us: I took each slap and glower and still loved, never being able to hate her. But if anyone treated Leah like that, she would've instantly turned against them, because she could look after herself.

_But how can I look after myself, Leah, now that you're gone?_

_Easy: get over yourself, get your head out your ass, and go get drunk, you stupid son-of-a-bitch. _

_Of course. _

Two hours later, I'm doing exactly what my memory of Leah instructed me to do: I'm in a club somewhere in Port Angeles, on my fifth glass of some strange coloured cocktail, dancing with a white chick who looks nothing like Leah, I swear, except for the dark, glossy hair cropped short and the big hazel eyes and slightly chapped lips and the long legs.

She's wearing a low cut, orange vest top that would have looked so good on Leah, and a lacy black mini skirt. She's grinding up against me, and her lips are brushing against my face and my neck, and I'm wondering: if Leah had ever danced with me, would it have been like this?

_Get your ass back into the present, loser! You've got a fucking sexy girl dying to shag you. Just enjoy it will you, dumbass! _

_Thanks for that, Leah-In-My-Head. _

I try to take her advice. I move my hands onto the girl's hips and we kiss. Her lips are like a whole new kind of drug: ecstasy mixed with cocaine, mixed with weed, mixed with LSD. They give me a buzz and at the same time they calm me and make me want to lie back and just feel... and they spark off a whole load of ideas and hallucinations floating round my head, making me see colours where there aren't any... of maybe that's the disco lights. Either way, this is good. Really good.

We have a few more drinks – I've lost track my now and my head feels like it's in a bubble, but it's nice and everything is good. It's funny: we keep laughing, and her laugh sounds like the sexiest witches cackle on Earth, and so we go into the men's toilets and we fuck.

There's graffiti scrawled all over the walls of the cubicle. Things like: _Fuck you, Janice, _and _You're just a virus with shoes. _

I have sex with the girl – did she ever tell me her name? I can't remember, and I don't really care – and she makes tiny squeaking noises all the way through. It's kind of annoying; I'm sure Leah would never have made a noise that girly and pathetic. I want to hear feral groans and angry moans. I want rough, angry sex with nails digging into my skin.

But this girl doesn't give it to me.

The next morning, I feel like I'm a mirror and I've been smashed. My head is pounding like a clock's pendulum working over time, and I wish that bastard stabbing a needle into the back of my eyes would cut it out. My hair feels dirty as it sticks to my head, and my muscles feel tight and achy.

_What the fuck happened?_

I lift my head – oh, my fucking neck! – and see the girl sleeping next to me. Her hair is sticking up in all directions and, just for a second, in the darkness, I think _Leah_.

But then I blink, and I remember: Leah is dead, this girl is the girl you had sex with in the toilet of a club last night.

_Where am I?_

I look around me – fuck, my neck; that really hurts – and I can see a floor covered in old beers cans and cigarette burns. On my left is a couch; a really old, shabby, faded red leather couch. I don't recognise this place, so it must be the girl's place.

_Shit, what's the girl's name? _

I can't remember; I can only remember loads of colours and coloured drinks and feeling high... Did she even tell me her name? I don't know.

_Get the hell out of here, Embry,_ I tell myself.

_No, dumbass, don't be a prick! _Leah tells me. _Get your phone, and get her phone, and go outside. Ring her phone with yours, quickly press 'ignore', and listen to her voice mail message. Hopefully she'll have modified it, and it'll tell you her name. _

_Damn, Leah, you're smart. _

_Stop kissing ass and just do it, alright! _

So I do. I find my phone, which is shoved in the pocket of my jacket on the other side of the room, and I find her phone, which is in her bag. I scroll through her phone until I find her number and I follow Leah's instructions.

It turns out the girl's name is Jessica, and her voice is irritating. _How could I have fancied her last night? _

This time, Leah doesn't offer any help.

The girl – Jessica - wakes up then, just after I manage to slip her phone back in her bag and mine back in my jacket.

"Hey, Embry," she says groggily a few seconds later. "D'you like my place?"

Then she laughs dryly and gets to her feet, walking to the kitchen naked.

"Hair of the dog?" she calls.

"Yeah, sure," I reply, following after her.

"I'm Jess, by the way," she tells me as she pulls two cans of beer from the fridge. She tosses one of the cans at me; it slips past my hung over fingers and hits the grubby lino floor.

"Nice catch, sucker," Jess says sarcastically as she cracks open her can and takes a large swig. "Fuck yeah. Now time for a cigarette, to take another second off my life."

I pick up my can off the floor. This girl has a sarcastic, bitter edge to her... almost like Leah. I smile as Jess grabs a crumpled pack of cheap cigarettes out of her bag. Maybe this girl is the perfect rebound; maybe she's my Hair of The Dog.


	8. Chapter 8

The Sparrow & the Dove

A/N:

Sorry, sorry, sorry. I haven't updated anything for ages, but I'm trying really hard to get everything updated. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I hope I haven't lost a load of you guys who read this.

Chapter Eight:

Angela:

The sunlight slants through the large front windows of the coffee shop. It's evening; the time when the sun is at its prettiest: a deep, honey colour, not burning the ground but caressing it. The clear blue sky looks like a water colour painting, with gentle oranges and pinks stroked through it.

At this time of day, the café is almost empty. Only two customers are here: a young woman with bedraggled brown hair who has been sitting in the corner with a writing pad and a pen all day; and a lost looking middle-aged man who looks like he needs something stronger than coffee, but hasn't got the energy to go to the pub around the corner to get it.

I lean against the counter that I'm standing behind, resting my elbow on the warm, polished, dark brown wood. I let my mind wander, out of the window, into the orange haze...

Seth looked so lost when I saw him earlier today... I wonder if he's going to come by here... or maybe he didn't want to see anyone he knew. Maybe he was running away... _like I was before_... or maybe he was glad of the friendly face.

His face had been friendly enough... he has a pretty face, a little boy face... except there was something in his eyes, and his posture... something that looked kind of like that lost-looking man in the corner over there... _did I look like that, before? _...and his hair's longer than it was last time I saw him, in Forks... _it's almost as long as Ben's was. _

I blink and stand up straight, pulling my arms off the counter and holding them against my stomach. I glance down and notice that I'm standing like Bella Swan used to stand. And I don't want to do that, because that goes against the whole purpose of being here...

_But what is the purpose of being here?_

...I hope Seth comes by; I need the distraction... but no, his hair looks like Ben's, sort of, and I... no, I can't start not wanting to see him just because his hair sort of reminds me of Ben, that would be stupid, especially as he possibly kind of needs my friendship... but I don't have the right to decide that, do I? I don't have the right to decide whether or not someone _needs_ something... that's down to them. It's his choice...

_Wait, are you talking about Seth or Ben now?_

I push my hair off my face and nudge my dark-blue rimmed glasses a little further up my nose. One of the customers is getting up to leave: the woman with the bedraggled brown hair. She's closing her writing pad quickly and shoving it in her bag, as though she's in a rush. She then exits the café at a pace slightly quicker than a normal walk, without a single glance back over her shoulder. Most people look back to check that they haven't left anything behind, but she didn't. My eyes wander over to her table and I see that she's left her pen there.

I think about chasing her with it. However, when I glance out of the windows, I can't see her anywhere.

_She must be on that bus, _I concluded, watching the single-decker red bus pulling out of the bus stop on the opposite side of the road, outside of the hairdresser's.

Leaning against the counter again, I turn my attention to the floor. It's tiled, with diamond-shaped terracotta tiles. The sunlight refracts off them in an interesting way, making them look-

"Weber!"

I jump, spinning round. My boss, Mrs Gascoyne, has appeared in the doorway to the kitchen.

"Yes, Mrs Gascoyne?" I say, brushing my hair back again.

"Have you not been the clock, Weber? It is six o'clock. You are half an hour late closing the café."

"Oh, sorry, Mrs Gascoyne. I'll do it now."

Giving me a glare from over her small, circular glasses, she marches back into the kitchen again. I step out from behind the counter and walk over to the lost-looking middle aged man, who appears not to have noticed my boss shouting that the café should be closed.

"Um, excuse me, sir," I say. "But we have to close the café now, sir."

He looks up at me slowly, his wrinkled, pale face emerging from his luke-warm cup of coffee.

"Huh," he grunts.

"So, um, sir, I'm afraid you'll have to leave."

"Oh," he mutters. "'Kay. Have I... have I paid my bill... yet...?"

He gets up slowly, the chair scraping against the floor.

"Yes, sir, you've paid already."

"Uh... okay, then... um, thanks..."

"No problem, sir," I say. Then, biting my lip, not sure if it's appropriate, I ask, "Sir, are you okay?"

He turns slowly to face me. "Me... oh... okay...? Er... no, not really, buh-but it's nothin' for... you to worry a-abou'..."

"Um, will you be able to get home all right, sir? You seem a little... shaky."

"This is not a charity, Weber!" Mrs Gascoyne calls from the kitchen doorway. "Send him away and get the café closed!"

Mrs Gascoyne's words seem to upset the man further, like the last dregs of hope have been drained from his already hopeless eyes.

"Yes, Mrs Gascoyne!" I call. Then, whispering, I say to the man, "Could I offer you a lift home, sir?"

He hesitates for a moment, as though the words are difficult to comprehend, and then nods. "Y-yes... please. Er, call me, um... Trevor, please," he croaks.

"Okay, Trevor."

Then, with him hobbling despondently, and me walking slowly beside him, we make our way out of the café. With the key from the loop on my belt, I lock the door behind me.

I guide Trevor a little way along the street, in the direction he says his house is in. The progress we make is slow: Trevor is dragging his feet, and keeps pausing to look dejectedly at random landmarks. He often looks like he's on the verge of tears, and I wish I could help him more.

"Nearly there, now..." Trevor wheezes after we've been walking for half an hour.

A middle-aged woman wearing a suit, with a sharp, modern hair cut, is walking down the street towards us on her stiletto-clad feet. The expression on her square-jawed but rather pretty face is severe as she looks from Trevor to me, then back to Trevor.

"You get through them quickly, don't you?" she hisses. "How many is that now, in the space of a month? Five? Six? _Eight_?"

Trevor starts shaking, and I'm torn. Should I comfort him, protect him, or back away? After all, this is clearly between him at that woman; this is not my argument, and I would hate to stick my nose in where it's not wanted...

"N-n-n-n-no," Trevor stutters. "Martha, I... I d-d-didn't do..."

"Oh, stop acting so helpless, Trevor!" Then she turns her harsh, blue eyes onto me. "You're a little younger than the cheap trash he usually chooses. And a little better dressed. Don't waste your time on him, he's a _mess_!" She spits the last word right in Trevor's face; he cringes back and whimpers.

"I was just walking him home," I say softly. "He was really upset."

I help Trevor hobble past the stunned, furious looking woman called Martha. He walks up to a green painted front door and totters inside.

"Will you be all right now, Trevor?" I ask, standing in the doorway.

"Yes, th-th-thank y-you..."

"Okay. Goodnight, Trevor."

Then, with one final wave, I turn and start walking in the direction of my house.

"Interfering bitch!" I hear the woman called Martha call from behind me.

I sigh and, though I carry on walking, I slow down a little.

_When we argue, when we used to argue, when I still saw him... when Ben argued with me... he would call me an interfering bitch sometimes... but I was only trying to help... _


	9. Author's Note

Author's Note:

I'll keep this short: I'm done. I'm not going to be writing any of my twilight fanfics anymore, because I'm not interested in twilight anymore.

Basically, this is what happened: I'd already been tiring of twilight for a while – in fact, the fanfics had been my only link to the whole thing for a long time – and then I went to see Deathly Hallows Part 2 with my family. And I became obsessed. I remembered what I'd been missing for so long, and I went back to my childhood and Harry Potter. I went home and I re-read the whole series. I think I was half-way through Chamber of Secrets when I decided that I was going to become more obsessed with this than I ever was with twilight. And that's really saying a lot.

So, I write Harry Potter fanfics now, on my new account, ravenclawhalfbloodprince. I don't know if any of you will want to, but if you do, check out my new stuff. I'm also going to move some of my one-shots to my new accounts at some point.

That's about it. Sorry if you really liked this stuff or anything. Thanks for reading, and reviewing if you did. All of that really did mean a lot to me, honest. But I'm moving on to a Harry Potter era now. So, have fun reading whatever you read, guys.

Bye.


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